


Another Wingfic No One Asked For

by LostWithoutMyBlogger (AlmostSarcastic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Wings, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Reichenbach, Tags Are Hard, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 01:23:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12643281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostSarcastic/pseuds/LostWithoutMyBlogger
Summary: Everything in the world was normal, on April 21, 2010. Well, as normal as it could be with Sherlock in it. But that all changed on April 22, at exactly midnight British Summer Time. All at once, everyone on the planet sprouted wings. Those who were asleep woke up screaming, a terrible pain in their back as the new appendages burst free. But that was nothing compared to what those who were awake experienced. Sherlock, being among them, found the whole thing fascinating and, though he didn’t dare admit it, frightening.First, the tingles, like electricity racing up and down his back. Next, the itchiness, the ache that he wasn’t able to scratch. And then, the pain. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. It brought him to his knees in the living room, his gasp of agony mingling with the screams and cries of billions as they all stumbled into a new era. And the word. One word. It emerged and remained inside his head, shaping his life forever just through its existence. Omega.





	Another Wingfic No One Asked For

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh there's so many of these but I wanted to do one of my own. The idea's been sitting in my head for too long so, here.   
> FYI there will be no Rape/Non-Con in this. I've created my own universe where mating can't be forced, so everything is consensual.

Everything in the world was normal, on April 21, 2010. Well, as normal as it could be with Sherlock in it. But that all changed on April 22, at exactly midnight British Summer Time. All at once, everyone on the planet sprouted wings. Those who were asleep woke up screaming, a terrible pain in their back as the new appendages burst free. But that was nothing compared to what those who were awake experienced. Sherlock, being among them, found the whole thing fascinating and, though he didn’t dare admit it, frightening. 

First, the tingles, like electricity racing up and down his back. Next, the itchiness, the ache that he wasn’t able to scratch. And then, the pain. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. It brought him to his knees in the living room, his gasp of agony mingling with the screams and cries of billions as they all stumbled into a new era. And the word. One word. It emerged and remained inside his head, shaping his life forever just through its existence.  _ Omega.  _

After the eternity of a few minutes, Sherlock finally dared to turn around and look at his back. There, poking through the tatters of his suit, were wings.  _ Wings.  _ He couldn’t wrap his head around them. How could he? This sort of thing was unprecedented, and it brought his mind to a stuttering halt. His wings were a dark, almost-black brown, and coated entirely with feathers. They were long and slender, though he could tell just from the look of them that they were made for speed. He suddenly had an urge to test them but rejected it immediately. Instead, he stood, moving to get a flannel to wipe the blood-splattered appendages clean. He wobbled, unused to several more pounds of weight attached to his back.

He stopped. Footsteps. He could tell that they were leading from John’s room, but even before his mind could supply that fact, he knew it was his flatmate. He could smell something preceding him, a scent so  _ John  _ that there was no doubt in his mind who was joining him. The man stopped in the doorway.

Sherlock’s eyes were immediately drawn to John’s wings. Amber. They were a beautiful amber color. They were also made of feathers, though that was where the resemblance stopped. His were big and powerful, a sign of strength and dominance that sent a quick shiver down his spine. He had to clear his head as a strange voice inside of him urged him to go to John, to let him wrap those beautiful wings around him, to let him do, well, anything really.

“Sherlock?” John stuttered out. His voice was raw as if he’d been screaming. Thinking back, Sherlock wasn’t sure if he had been too.

“John,” he returned. “I was just going to fetch a flannel. Wipe myself down.”

John nodded, still overwhelmed by shock. He was still standing in the doorway when Sherlock returned.

Sherlock reached behind himself, his wings dancing away before he could even touch them. He frowned. “I can’t seem to control them. They appear to be acting purely on instinct.” He felt the strange voice within him urge him to let John do it. The thought was strangely tempting. He trusted John. He wouldn’t do anything to harm his new additions. “Here,” he said as he gave in to the urge. He held the flannel out to him. “Can you try doing mine for me? I think it might make things easier.” When John hesitated, Sherlock added, “I can do yours first, if you want.”

John shook his head. “No, no. You first.” He gently pushed Sherlock down until he was sitting on the floor of the living room, John right behind him. He felt a tentative touch on his left wing, which was currently folded against his back. His wing snapped out, stretching to give John access to all of his feathers. Sherlock tried to fold it in closer, though the thing didn’t listen. He felt far too vulnerable. John touched the damp flannel to his primaries, and an involuntary shiver went down his spine. 

As John continued to wipe the mess from his newly sprouted wings, a strange feeling overtook Sherlock. John touching his feathers felt… right. It felt good. He felt himself lean back further into him, his wings following suit. He bit his lip as a compromising sound threatened to escape.  _ Wings… are definitely… erogenous zones,  _ he thought to himself. __ As John took care of him, Sherlock felt his whole body go slack. He relaxed, his eyes flickering shut. He focused purely on the feeling of John's hands and the flannel all over his left wing. All his muscles softened, well, all except for one. 

Sherlock’s eyes shot open when he realized what was happening. He was getting an erection, with John right behind him. His immediate panic and the strange voice inside of his head battled fiercely as he struggled to come up with a solution to his mortifying problem. Part of him wanted to bolt out of the room right then, before any more blood could flow to his nether regions. But the voice whispered to him, urging him to stay and let John continue, to just let the feelings overwhelm him. 

Sherlock felt a brief pang of loss as John's hand and the flannel left his wing, but bit back a groan as they focused once again, this time on his right one. Sherlock's mind began to go blank, the strange voice and the pleasure swallowing his panic whole. His hips jolted unconsciously back, stopping against John’s legs. Then suddenly, a feeling unlike anything Sherlock had ever felt struck him. He nearly came in his pants as his wings pressed John’s fingers against that spot, hard. A loud moan escaped him before he could stop himself, and he felt John freeze up behind him. 

Sherlock was instantly afraid John would stop touching him and pull away, but his ministrations continued. He felt John lean in towards him, his breathing heavy and uneven. Instinct took over, and Sherlock tilted his head to the side to expose his neck. John took the opportunity to bring his face down into it, eliciting another moan from the detective. He bared his neck further, sounds pouring from his mouth as John abandoned the flannel to run both hands through Sherlock's clean feathers. He was so very hard now, and he knew that John had to have noticed.

A breathless gasp escaped him when he felt John's teeth scrape his skin. He arched up into him, his whole body quivering. Just an hour ago he would have balked at the idea of John biting him, but it seemed so impossibly appealing now. He could almost feel it already. He longed for it, feeling the urge to beg rise up in him. He pressed his neck up into John’s teeth, conveying his very eager consent to the beautifully winged man. 

But then John pulled back, his face leaving his neck and his hands dropping from his wings. Sherlock let out a desperate whine at the loss of contact, his mind immediately filling with confusion and self-doubt.  _ Why did he pull away? He clearly wanted to bite me, still wants to.  _ He turned and tried to meet John’s gaze, but the man has moved to the other side of the room and was staring stubbornly at the ground.  _ Am I not good enough?  _ Sherlock wondered.  _ Does John think I’m not worthy?  _ He looked down at himself, frowning.  _ That has to be it. After all, he's straight, and I'm just his friend. His very male, not at all female friend.  _ Sherlock couldn't help the rush of bitterness that swept through him at that thought, and it was joined by a pang of sadness as he imagined John with some girl, biting down on her neck instead of his.

_ And even if he wasn't straight, who would want to mate with a lanky sack of bones?  _ He paused his train of thought.  _ Mate? Where did that word come from?  _ He searched for an explanation, but it seemed as if the word had popped out of nowhere. He abandoned his thoughts to look back up at John. His flatmate still refused to meet his eyes. Sherlock sighed. His wings were clean now, but John's still were smeared and matted with drying blood. “John-”

“I'm so sorry,” rushed out of John’s mouth. “I-I… I don't know what came over me.” He swallowed hard. “I was going to-” His face screwed up with self-loathing. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, almost too low for Sherlock to hear. Then, suddenly, John had rushed out of the room and up to his bedroom, where he heard the door lock.

Sherlock was alone.

He stood carefully, his legs unsteady. He knew he looked like a mess; his face was red, his feathers were still sticking up where John had carded his fingers through them, he was breathing hard, and his pants were embarrassingly tight. He grimaced. Turning, he picked up the discarded flannel and dropped it out in the hallway for John to find, and hopefully use, later. Then he took a long, and very cold, shower.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I'm a chronic procrastinator (literally procrastinating on AP work by writing this rip) and have other stories I'm working on, so don't expect regular updates.


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